


Les Innommables

by tetsugoushi (gitalee)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Frottage, Identity Issues, Javert's Boner In General, Javert's Certain Boner, Javert's Confused Boner, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Mommy Issues, Not to be taken seriously, Roses, Sewing, Thinking Outside the Box, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gitalee/pseuds/tetsugoushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Javert has a secret kink for wearing lace underwear</i>," begins the prompt I chose for the Valvert Gift Exchange. But however could he wind up discovering such a fetish, when such lingerie did not exist until, at the earliest, some fifty years after his death?</p><p>Our tale begins on the day before Javert is to leave for M-sur-M, when a dying old woman insists that he fulfill her last request...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mother and the Necessity

Because he is a son of reprobates, he will be beyond reproach, and thus stake out his place in the world. It is simple science.

Someone with the right breeding could have weaknesses aplenty and still maintain face in society, but Javert likes to think that even if he had been the son of fine gentlepersons, he would nevertheless possess the same backbone, the same resolve, the same fortitude. And if these theoretical progenitors of repute lacked a moral code befitting their standing, he likes to think that he would deny them as well, and make his way on his own regardless.

He adjusts his stock and wishes that the Toulon barracks had a mirror in the dormitories. Usually all he needs is touch to ensure that his physical appearance is spot-on enough to intimidate the prisoners and other guards alike, but today is special. Today is his last day in a prison. He was born in a jail, but now he knows that he will not die in one, and he will look his best for the occasion. It is perhaps the first moment of vanity in his life.

Even though the ride to Montreuil-sur-Mer will be hours upon hours, well over a day’s time, his boots are polished, his belt oiled, his shirt and jacket pressed to precision. Everything is new but his drawers, and even those he nearly considered replacing. He cannot check his look, but he smiles to himself anyway, briefly; it is unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and turns into a grimace automatically within a few seconds, but anyone who saw Javert in this moment would be absolutely terrified to see this man in a cheerful mood.

There is a knock at the door, and he schools his face into neutrality just in time to not scare off the adjutant who will be replacing him.

“Yes?”

“Monsieur. They want to see you in the head office.”

Javert has scraped and clawed for every small promotion in his life, but he also knows he was born under a phenomenally unlucky star, and so for a moment a chill washes through his guts, so cold that he feels his balls retract. He is confident, though, that none of this shows on his face. “Thank you, Bissette. Do you happen to know why?”

The young man looks evasive, then raises his gaze to meet Javert’s. “Something about your mother, Monsieur.”

\--

As it turns out, she is dying. She is in prison again, perhaps because she cannot give up the cards, and perhaps because she wanted to die with a roof over her head. Of course, the reason she speaks aloud is different.

“I knew they would finally bring you to me,” she says, brushing white, stringy hair out of her eyes. “I knew I could always find you here, boy.”

He doesn’t want to speak to her, but it is difficult not to respond to the woman who raised him before she left him behind at the orphanage. “This is the last time,” he says, and pauses, considering his words so he will not be overly descriptive. “I am leaving here.”

Madame Javert cackles. She was not always such a crone. “I know you are. And so am I, child. That’s why I’ve come to you. Maman is not such a fool that she would ask an officer if he would like his future read without expecting to end up here.”

 _Then why did you wind up here so many times before?_ He does not voice his thoughts aloud; he has asked her too many times before, and never received an answer that he liked.

But today, of all days, for her to catch him right before he is due to leave forever, and claim she knew it to be so -- perhaps every fortune-teller, like a broken clock, occasionally strikes true. “Make it fast, then. My coach departs in three hours.”

“Time enough, before you’re off to change the world,” says the hag who was near-beautiful the first time she entered prison walls, lifetimes ago. “I know you don’t think much of your mother, but I believe I did not raise you so poorly-”

“-you scarcely raised me at all-”

“-that you would deny any dying woman her last request, let alone the one who gave you life.”

Damn her, it is true; he feels his face twist in resignation. “Name your blood-price, woman.”

Her eyes light up, and she raises a clawed hand to her white mane once more, this time stroking it like a pet. “Do you remember when this was dark? Oh, I was beautiful once, with raven locks that captured the eye of a dashing blond pirate lord. He was no mere thief, your father, and I no mere damsel; he had virgins throwing themselves at his feet, but the dread captain Javert chose me, Sabine of the dark tresses and the pink scarves. I was his rose, before you and this damned place came along. I was the rose of the sea.”

It is not the first time hearing such ramblings, and by now he knows how little of the story is true. It is on the tip of his tongue to demand that if telling him fairy tales is her last request, it is time to hurry up and die already. She seems to read this upon his face, though, for she lies back on the prison infirmary bunk and regards her son deliberately. “I have called for you because I wish to die the rose.”

If he were the laughing sort, he would have burst out here, but his time as a Toulon guard has whittled the instinct from him. Still. “I am a lawman, not a hairdresser, and even the finest artists of Paris could not paint it black for you. You desire a wig? Get one yourself.”

She closes her eyes, her twisted features in soft repose, and for a moment one might almost believe that she was a princess of the high seas, and not the vagabond that she has always been. “Of course not. I haven’t the time left to have it fit my head, and although I am sure you have more gold than I, I have heard that you jailer pigs do not make enough to buy me one of the quality I would require. No, son. Just a scarf. Just a pink scarf, so that I might wrap this horrid spider’s nest in-” A hacking, spastic cough cuts off her words, but she has made her point. 

Eventually, she opens her eyes, only to find that her son has closed his, and is rubbing the bridge of his nose. “A scarf. Pink.” He is thinking of the linen shops in town, thinking of where he recently bought a cravat in honor of his new post. He hates himself for thinking that a simple scarf probably wouldn’t cost so much, and would ease his newly-heavy heart for his upcoming trip.

“Pink like the dawn over the sea,” she adds; her voice is suddenly strong again, as though she knows that there is no choice in this matter. He sighs.

“I shall see what I can do... Mother,” he says, and she shows her broken-fencepost teeth in a sick, yellow joy.

\--

Due to what the superiors term ‘family circumstances,’ Javert’s carriage is rescheduled for the next day at dawn, so he changes into older garb before going into town, glaring at the formerly-new outfit that now has some hours’ breaking in. Perhaps he might pick up another new -- ah, but he cannot afford it, especially since he has no idea how much his mother’s request may cost him. No, he will make do with slightly-used clothing and better-used underclothes tomorrow, and knows perfectly well that after the long ride to Montreuil-sur-Mer, it will not make much difference anyway; it was merely the thought that counted. 

Once his mother is gone, he will have no family, and he thinks that no man before might ever have considered such a proposition a happy one. He bares his teeth in an expression that he considers gleeful. It resembles the woman’s from yesterday.

But he wipes the smile off his face with a large, impatient hand, rides into town, and accosts the first clothier’s with the sort of forthrightness that suits a future Inspector.

The tailor recognizes him. “Monsieur, I hope the articles that you purchased the other day suited your needs. If there is any problem, I would happy to fix them for you.”

Javert waves dismissively. “They are acceptable. If you should be so kind as to show me to your scarves -- no -- your women’s scarves.”

He does not care for the man’s _ahh_ of understanding and knowing smile, but it is not worth correcting him; the misapprehensions of some clerk are not worth his breath. He allows himself to be led to the drawer of women’s scarves near the front of the store, fanned out in a rainbow of a peacock’s tail. He reaches out a single fingerprint and touches one with disdain, as though it were something rotting that might fall to pieces upon contact. It is soft, pleasant, and he feels his breath leave his body in a quiet rush. It reminds him just how coarse his own clothes are, including the new ones, and for a moment he is almost envious of the lamentable race that is womankind.

At first, he expects to choose the first one of any pink on the spectrum, but he finds himself flipping through the hues with a discerning eye, holding them against one another to find the most pleasing shade against his inner arm; he knows too well that he shares his mother’s skin tone. Eventually, he comes upon one that is a glowing, pale rose, patterned with a delicate floral pattern, lacy in places and silky in others. When he runs it along his skin, he hears himself breathe heavier.

“This will do,” he says. He is not sure what else to say.

“Very good. And for you, Monsieur?” says the clerk, thoughts of coin clearly flashing in his eyes, though the subject of compensation has yet to be broached. “For you, Monsieur, I will make a sale.” And it still costs more than anything he has ever purchased for himself. It will be his first and only gift to the woman who gave him the misery of life.

She will not receive it.

\--

Javert sleeps in his old quarters in the guards’ barracks with the scarf curled in his hands. The town and the prison are not far apart, so he has not been gone long, but that damnable, belligerent woman had to go and pass on shortly after he left.

“We are so sorry to tell you, Monsieur...”

He wordlessly and deftly shifts away from the reassuring hand from the warden when he is told the news; there have never been tears within him, and he does not regret their absence now. His mother’s death is purely relief. One last charitable impulse crosses his mind, and he asks to tie the scarf to the corpse -- it is her property, after all -- but the body is already gone; the lower staff in the women’s prison, not knowing of her connection to one of their fellows, did not let the old vagabond hag’s remains cool before returning the self-styled rose back to the sea. 

His first thought is to wrap the cloth around a stone and pitch it over the oceanside cliff as well, but that would be a waste of his hard-earned funds. He likewise considers returning it to the shop, but that would require having to explain himself, and besides, it was an honest purchase. It is not the storekeeper’s fault that Madame Javert made a fool of her son up until the very end. But he will not offer it to anyone else, either, as an act of generosity toward a higher-up’s wife or a colleague’s young daughter. He bought it; it is his.

Instead, he keeps it in his pocket until he sleeps, and when he does, he curls it between his fists as though it has angered him and needs punished. He is not sure why he does not keep it tucked in his belongings, but it felt right not letting it go.

That night, he dreams of the sea, his sleep as restless as the waves. 

Fortunately, the fiacre is nearly as comfortable as his bed -- that is to say, not conducive to rest whatsoever, but he is used to it, and he spends much of the long, long trip in a doze. Somehow, the scarf escapes his pocket and wraps around his fists once more, but he does not think of why he possesses this item.

\--

“Monsieur. Monsieur l’inspecteur. We are here, Monsieur.”

Javert blinks sleepily at the coachman and the unfamiliar term of address, rubs blearily at his eyes and down his whiskers. There is no way he can be there already, but apparently he is; he has crossed France from south to north in the shortest two days he has ever experienced. Perhaps it is the dearth of sleep, even though his time at Toulon was hardly restful.

“Thank you for your service,” he says absently to the man holding the door open; he is unused to being waited upon, to long-term travel in general. The air of this town is still salted with an ocean breeze, but it is a different sea, and a different smell.

He steps down from the carriage, trying not to stare at the hired man holding the door for him, while simultaneously trying to adapt his nostrils to the scent of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Though he served his time for his country before the prison he was born into welcomed him home, this was the most exotic place he’d ever been -- perhaps because it was his new home.

Lost in these thoughts, he misses the last step down.

The next thing he knows, the good inspector is sitting on his arse in the puddle of mud in which the fiacre has parked. In his still-drowsy state, for a moment he cannot parse what has happened, and is only aware of a sudden blunt pain and coldness in his rear end. Then the wetness seeps through his clothes, and he comes to his senses.

“Monsieur l’inspecteur, are you all right?”

He shoots a glare upward, but is not foolish enough to sink his hands into the mud to push himself up; he takes the proffered hand and allows the coachman to pull him to his feet. Fortunately, it is late at night, no one is on the street outside the police station, and, in the most blessed of circumstances, his jacket has flown upward, and will cover the stain long enough for him to make his introductions to any members of the police force who happen to be around. Thank God for small blessings.

Though he is not pleased to have lost face in front of the coachman, he will be on the move soon enough. Once he is back to his feet, the servant seems to know better than to ask again if Javert is all right, and wisely averts his gaze and bows.

He makes it into the station without further incident, is greeted warmly, given his new uniform, and shown to his rooms in a nearby apartment building. He makes sure he graciously allows the station secretary to lead the way, and never turns his back to the man, although he is fairly sure that no one will look at the muck that is now leaking down the backs of his boots.

Even though he has slept an indeterminable number of hours on the journey, he is too tired to tend to his clothing more than to pour a pitcher of water and dunk the trousers and drawers till the mud swirls away, then hang them outside on the balcony to dry. He sets out the uniform, then falls asleep the moment he reaches the simple bed that is essentially the only piece of furniture in the room.

In the morning he will be introduced to the mayor.

\--

Javert awakens at dawn, well before the scheduled meeting time, and eyes his clothes with a mixture of trepidation and pride. It is the first time in years that he will be going to work in something besides an oversized and heavy blue overcoat, and he is impatient to put on the new uniform. But first -- he goes to the balcony window to retrieve the clothes he hung out the night before, as he very well cannot wear his officer’s garb without undergarments.

“...” He opens the curtains and stares outside, where the trousers wave gently in the breeze, politely waiting for him. It is a pity he does not need them.

What he does need, on the other hand, are far less well-behaved. Flapping fabric is wrapped around the flagpole attached below his window, but the flag has been taken down for the night: in its place, Javert's underclothes are threaded through and around the pointed rod, and he must lean out awkwardly to pull them off. Again, he must be thankful for his timing, as it would be entirely inappropriate and undignified for the new police inspector to be seen leaning out and grabbing his drawers off a building.

And he almost, almost has enough time to retrieve them safely, reaching through the iron bars of the balcony to gently pull them free, until he hears the first cries of the vendors of Montreuil-sur-Mer beginning to sell their wares. Usually, his nerves are as steady as the earth itself, but the strain of recent events and indignity heaped upon indignity have left him more fragile than usual, and with the first cry of a fishmonger, he jerks backward as though burned, and, with an audible rip, his drawers come with him.

He does not assess the damage until he goes inside and closes the windows behind him. Then, he pokes his fingers forlornly through the gaping hole that, were he to put the underclothes on, would create a fine frame for his genitals. 

It is not even something that could be fixed with a needle and thread; there is definitely a good amount of cloth missing. It requires patchwork, just like the place in the back where he had a run-in with a heating stove some months back. He selected this pair for his trip because they were his newest and least-damaged, with the thought that he would stop by a clothier’s for a new set once he saw what was given to him as part of the police uniform, but now he can only regret that he took with him as little extra as possible.

He does not know the location of a clothing shop -- would not have time to wait for it to open if he did -- and he does not have the material for patchwork. And it would be altogether inappropriate to meet the mayor of the town without proper garments. He should have expected a mess like this; it is always the way for him.

His eyes dart around the room, and he considers briefly using a piece of the curtains or sheets as a patch, but the expense to replace them afterward is not worth contemplating. Perhaps a bit from what he was wearing en route? Again, those clothes are something he will need replaced if he uses them, and he cannot afford to do so. Surely, there must be something...

His eyes settle on his mother’s scarf, hanging on the hat rack. 

It is beautiful; cutting it into patches would be a true tragedy, but it is the only expendable source of cloth in the room, and his drawers need closed.

Javert sighs, and goes into the other room to hunt for scissors, needle, and thread. At the very least, he thinks, he can replace the old patch as well, so that the colors are consistent. And the waistband is a bit frayed, and could use some further fortification too. Well. In for a sou, in for a franc. It is not as though anyone will see this shame.

He does his best not to think of his mother as he begins to slice the delicate cloth, but only mostly succeeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the prompt will be revealed with the associated chapters.


	2. The Rose and the Gardener

There is something about Mayor Madeleine that unsettles Javert, although for some reason he cannot identify the reason his nerves lit up in his presence when they first met.

Certainly, it cannot simply be that he is attractive, though he is; Javert knows he will never act upon his urges, but he has been aware that he is attracted to men ever since he was in his early teens, when more than just his posture sprang to attention for the senior guardsman with the powerful shoulders and striking gaze. The mayor is a bit twitchy, possibly shy, the sort which usually does not draw Javert’s notice, but his body is deceptively strong under the gentleman’s finery, his features are kind, and his eyes are beautiful as any he has seen. Still, this is not the old feeling he remembers from his boyhood. 

(“It seems to me we may have met...”)

It is closer to deja vu, and he wonders if perhaps the good man served time in the military as well, but knows it would be far too presumptuous and inappropriate to ask. He does not let himself truly remember where he has seen an individual of such strength before, and thus resigns himself to simply dealing with the strange feeling of recognition.

He is more distracted by another feeling, anyhow. This one also he cannot quite name, but he has felt light all day, despite his tiredness. It came on when he dressed for morning, when he left the house. Perhaps it is his boots, recently re-soled, but that does not seem right. Or it might be his new hat, breeches, and jacket, pulling his shoulders even more upright. Regardless of its source, it feels... good.

Javert enters his new quarters to see that a few additional furnishings have been added in the outer chambers -- little details, daisies in vases and extra pots of water; the kind of thing a woman might appreciate. He rolls his eyes and moves the vases to the side of the room before eating his supper. For some reason, he is particularly looking forward to that night’s sleep.

The bedroom is supposed to be his sanctuary, so it is with relief that it does not appear to have been so violated; straightened a bit, perhaps, but his mind had produced so many worse possibilities that he releases a sigh of relief as he goes to undress for bed.

Only once his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches come off does a flash of lovely, radiant pink catch his eye, and he notices the one addition to the inner room: there is a thin, ornately framed mirror on the far side of the bed, hanging innocently on the wall. The pink is on his body, complementing the skin where his stomach meets his drawers. It is something he could never have imagined.

Transfixed, he approaches the mirror, takes a close look at himself. He should feel ridiculous. He did not pay attention to the path of his patchwork took this morning, but now he sees how he has sewn a belt around his waist and between his legs, as though the scarf has secured itself to his hips in order to know him intimately. The legs of the original garment are there, but now, with the pink splitting them down the middle, the effect is as gaudy as a pair of women’s pantalettes. It should be absolutely embarrassing. 

“I must acquire new drawers post-haste,” he tells himself absently, but does not mean it.

As he scrutinizes this ridiculous getup, he considers three facts: one, after all the expenses he incurred in coming to Montreuil-sur-Mer, he cannot truly afford new clothes; two, he is not at all ashamed to see his mother’s scarf cradling his balls; three, his cock is beginning to stiffen.

This does not embarrass him either.

Indeed, it is quite the contrary. The more he stares, the harder he becomes, and before long, he is fully erect, staring down at a prick that is staring back up at himself. He is not aroused by his own body, though, oh no. It is the shape that the patchwork is taking as he rises: delicate creases of fabric create leaves and thorns along a thick and firm stem, and as he gently begins to run his fingertips up and down, more rounded folds begin to form petals at the head, the delicate pattern of the cloth only reinforcing the effect. And as he continues stroking this glory, and his chest begins to heave with every hitching breath, the most glorious lace flower blooms, opening to reveal a wet stamen at its center, which he has created with his own body. 

Keeping his eyes on the mirror, he brings his fingers to dab gently at the beauty he has produced, and feels overwhelmed by the need to bring the rose to fruition, but he cannot make a mess of these superlative undergarments; he loosens the drawstring just enough to allow the tip of his prick, red and rich, to escape, barely in time for him to gasp and spurt his seed upward onto his belly, spreading a promise for future blooms. 

Javert watches every moment of this depraved and sublime act as though he could burn it into his memory forever. When he is able to move again, he tucks himself away, relishing the whispering softness against his most tender flesh, and he moves into bed with the grace and presence of the holiest of God’s creatures. He is sanctified. He does not need the new rosary laying on the nightstand to cleanse his spirit, though he touches it gently with the same fingertip that he first used to touch himself

Right before he sleeps, he thinks that he does need new drawers after all, and that those too should be fortified with the remnants of the rose-colored scarf. It would be inappropriate to serve the city and its mayor with only one good pair of underwear.

\--

Javert’s custom drawers are unique to himself, and are not regulation, but undergarments are not part of the official uniform of the police; he is breaking no restriction when he brings the rose to life beneath his breeches every morning. He must bring it to seed every morning as well, as his other garments fit him too well, and it would be inappropriate for the town’s police inspector to have a visible erection while performing his duties. 

Debasing himself (as he used to think it, though now he is conflicted about the idea, knowing the sin but feeling nothing base in such beauty) every dawn is enough for him to get through the day with his dignity intact, though more often than not, if he has had to do some particularly vigorous walking, he has to repeat the act when he undresses for bed, the memory of the soft material stroking along his flesh too overwhelming to ignore. He used to commit this act furtively in his bed, humiliated by the dampness and the smell afterward, but now he watches it in a mirror, and thinks of nothing but the glorious flowering of pleasure.

Of course, this is only when he is able to contain himself to the privacy of his own quarters. When the need becomes firm and pressing when he is in his official role, it sometimes becomes difficult to focus on law and duty, particularly when it happens at night, and such weakness shames him. It is a beautiful thing indoors and alone, but outside, when he is not the Rose but the Law, he feels a shudder of cold revulsion at how easily beauty becomes filth. His origins betray him. The sea-hag fortuneteller’s blood is strong in him, and every time he becomes erect and dampens his drawers on the job, he is angered that any part of her lives on.

Still, what is in his mind is not purely the rose itself; though his focus is less on his body than on the delicate garments enveloping his most private places, he is not so self-absorbed that he comes every night thinking of himself. More and more frequently, it is Mayor Madeleine whose kind face and strong back vie for Javert’s attention during these private moments. The inspector has even dared to wonder what the mayor’s flower would look like, concluding that soft red silk would fit him well; though a gentle and charitable man, the iron that clearly encircles the mayor’s backbone requires something more vibrant than the pastels that befit Javert himself. 

At the same time, however, even when he tries to picture the mayor in nothing but beautiful underclothes, his mental fantasies drift above the drawers, his attention drawn more to what must be a firm stomach, a broad and bristly chest, tight muscles beneath a sensitive, lined face drawn tight with passion. He continues to ignore that irritating moment where he thought the mayor might possibly have been the one convict in years to have ever caught his eye, although the memories of prisoner 24601 grow more vivid with every meeting. 

He has a type, that is all. A type to be ever ignored, although he cannot ignore thoughts of Mayor Madeleine for long, any more than he can ignore the sensation when walking in silk and gauze.

He will not touch himself to thoughts of the mayor, though; he is not so disrespectful a public servant. But his lusts are nevertheless kept sated: most days, the thrill of exposing what he will wear or has worn secretly all day is enough to keep him more satisfied than he has ever been. Slowly but surely, belatedly but finally, the good inspector is blossoming as a man.

This is how Javert’s first days pass in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

\--

It all comes apart with the whores.

Patrolling the docks has become a not-so-secret part of his routine, as it only makes sense for the town's Inspector to make sure that the poison of the ports does not spread into the heart of the city, or sink its venom too deeply into itself. Prostitution is one thing, Javert thinks, as long as the whores keep their trade to the reprobates who come in from the sea, but in a society centered around such a base industry, the risk of theft and murder rises dramatically, and just like he felt a duty toward his dying vagabond of a mother, he feels that the scum of the streets need an occasional eye to make sure they do not hurt themselves too badly.

He tells himself quite firmly that this is why he haunts the docks as the Law, and in the beginning, this is true: he comes as the protector of the town. But recently, he purchased a brand-new set of drawers, and has since realized that the remnants of his mother's scarf are not enough to properly shape what he wants. He cannot afford a new scarf of the quality he purchased before, but he has noticed that prostitutes manage to take very little and create grand costumes that pop with color against the drab wharfs, and he thinks that studying such a skill may bring him inspiration.

At first, the whores would hoot in his direction when they caught him staring, shaking their loose parts and calling out prices and offers of discounts, but he has since given them enough dry stares and menacing lip-curls to quiet all but the most persistent.

With the inspiration of the bright sashes and gauzy underskirts of the ladies of the night, he is starting to shape an idea of his next creation. This one will contain the colors of a garden in bloom near the top, tiny patches that make up a much bigger picture, and he cannot wait to see how it will cradle his prick and blossom into something breathtaking. But so far, it is coming out wrong, and so Inspector Javert continues to patrol the seedy side of town with his nightstick in hand and his eye on the lovely ladies' garb.

Some nights, such as this one, he does not go to the docks alone. He suspects strongly that some of his fellow officers are merely staking out pretty faces to return to during off-duty hours; surely they know the consequences were they to pursue such depravity while serving the law. He does not appreciate the company, and is always grateful when they decide to cover more ground by splitting up.

And one night, which, though he does not know it yet, will become significant to him in numerous ways, he is even more appreciative than usual of being separated from his men, for a particularly striking dress of a rich magenta material, with a matching lace trim, catches his eye. It is just what he needs to finish the most troublesome part of his new drawers, and he can feel the blood rush between his legs at the very thought. 

The woman on whom it is wrapped around is olive-skinned and curvaceous, unusually well-fed for a whore of the docks, and so he has no qualms about eyeing her dress with something approaching lust; he could leave her in nothing but a petticoat and she would not freeze.

She sees him looking, and waves her fingers as if she were scratching the wind.

“Inspector, darling,” croons the prostitute. “It’s so cold. You know you want to come inside, take your hat off, handsome.”

At the sound of her voice, his back stiffens and his cock, thankfully, releases the blood it had gathered. Seemingly unaffected by his flawless officer's stance, the woman bats paint-spackled eyelids and hikes up her skirt, revealing more of the lovely hem that catches his attention far more than her netted ankle.

“A word,” he says, swallowing first to make sure his voice will be steady and strong.

“Oh, I’ll give you more than that, Monsieur,” she giggles as he approaches, leaning forward to peddle her jiggling flesh, which, fortunately and, undoubtedly contrary to her expectations, helps his mind to maintain its clarity. He sets his mouth in a firm line.

“Your dress.”

“Come inside with me and I’ll take it off -- for you, half-price,” she leers, and he does his best to ignore the chill. 

He walks closer, and drops his voice to a low murmur. “I will go nowhere with you, woman. But you have something I desire.”

“You are not the first to tell me so,” the woman laughs, then sobers. “But I am afraid that if you insist on the out-of-doors, I must raise the price again. You are so bold, Inspector!”

He holds out his gloved hands and forms a rough square with his thumbs. “This much will do.”

This clearly puzzles the woman, but then she looks down at her gown. The bat-wing eyelashes flutter and rise with a dark comprehension. It is clear that she is suspecting some kind of debased sexual fetish on the part of the feared Inspector Javert, as she squares her thumbs as well and holds her hands over her filthiest place. “I’m afraid it has not touched me much, but if Monsieur will give me a moment, I can drop the petticoats and--”

“Just above the hem will do. Name your price.” It is just as clear that she has no idea what he needs.

She names her price, and though he keeps his face impassive when he hears it, he bares his teeth and gums in a triumphant smile when she takes a knife from her bodice and slices out the entire hemline for him. This is more than he needs, but it is better.

When he walks off and feels not only the silken comfort of the Rose against his crotch, but the length of cloth that he has tucked in an inner pocket of his greatcoat, he feels himself pressing against his trousers once more. Elated at his acquisition, he makes sure that his buttons are secure before he meets his fellow lawmen, as the thought of being caught with his cock up in such an area... for most men, it would be a normal consequence of being surrounded by flesh-hungry women, but Javert is irreproachable. It is a dark fear he feels, but it will pay off, he knows, when he is alone.

Then that coughing waif, with her red-rimmed, violet-bruised eyes complementing the shades of her dress, and the rich red blood that she has drawn from that pompous gentleman. Encountering the scene, Javert must steel his spine to handle this as coldly as possible, though the intense, deep colors of the scene against the snowy backdrop make his guts burn in envy.

And then the mayor ruins everything.

\--

Javert does not know why Mayor Madeleine is there that night; perhaps he will never know, as the excuse of dispensing alms to the needy seems as flimsy as the covering of a prostitute's bosom. But he has his theories.

He dismisses his men and considers taking his leave, but knows that, beautiful cloth in his pocket or not, he will not rest well with such a blight on his dignity. This feeling is unfamiliar, but he can identify it readily: he is unhappy with the mayor. No, it is more than that: this is pure and righteous anger. He does not allow himself to feel anything very often at all, let alone in public, and let alone anything that threatens his aloof and untouchable reputation, but the matter of the whore and the mayor pushes him right against the invisible ropes of his boundaries.

For the first time, he truly allows himself to consider what he has heretofore denied: Mayor Madeleine might not be a real man at all. He may be a silk flower, beautiful but false. That strength, the limp, the nervous nature, those could all be overlooked with little protest, but not only was he wandering the shady side of town, he would take the side of a consumptive prostitute over not only a gentleman but over the Law’s judgement. Javert is shamed that he was so blinded by the man’s presence that he refused to see him clearly before, but he slides his hand into his pocket, strokes the whorecloth, and consoles himself that at least he is aware now.

He considers writing a letter to Paris straight away, but decides that can come later; his impotent rage requires attended to more urgently. 

Mayor Madeleine -- 24601? -- is just leaving the hospital when Javert arrives.

“Inspector,” says the tall man, raising his eyebrows and looking shifty. “Forgive me for hurrying off so, but it was urgent. Did you... have something to say?”

Javert feels himself scowl; it is not befitting of even a false mayor to play cute. It should not befit an inspector either, but for some reason he feels it wise to maintain the facade just a moment more. “The wh- woman. She is now in the hospital’s custody?”

The man who calls himself Madeleine casts him a queer look. “I will not let you take her to prison, Javert, and I am not about to argue in front of a place of healing.”

He waves a hand disinterestedly, although inside he seethes. “It is your decision to make, Monsieur le maire.”

“Yes. But I do not think you believe it. I know what you have come for, and I do not want you to enter this hospital tonight.”

As though he would burst in and carry out the wench bodily! Even if he were inclined to do so, the mayor seems to forget that not every man has the strength of a convict. “I swear to you on my mother’s name, I shall not.” No one would ever guess what a hollow vow that is.

The mayor’s shoulders sag just a bit in what is perhaps relief. “Thank you, Inspector. But you are still unsatisfied with my decision, and I do not want this to color our relationship in caring for the town. Is there nothing I can do to make you understand my perspective?”

Javert feels an inexplicable need to pretend that he believes in and respects this man as much as he did the day before. “No, Monsieur, but as I said, I shan’t argue.”

“That is not good enough. Please, Javert, let us have a talk at the mairie, have a glass of wine to warm us, and see if we cannot work out our differences.” The voice is calm and solicitous, but insistent. He puts a firm hand on Javert’s arm; though he is not using his full strength, Javert cannot but notice that the other man’s grip is potentially strong enough to break it in two. His breath comes a bit faster.

“I do not accept bribes,” he replies, and the mayor laughs, a gentle chuckle that sends heat through Javert’s belly despite his suspicions. His hand again finds his pocket, and he walks with just a little extra swing in his stride.

This is a dangerous game he is playing, but despite the night’s setback, he believes he will win, and feels satisfaction within and without.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Continued: _"He likes the way it feels against his skin, likes that only he knows what he’s wearing underneath his trousers, likes how – whenever he’s aroused (which is every time he wears them) – there is a small, wet patch forming where his arousal meets the cloth, making him feel dirty and humiliated."_


	3. The Mistake and the Discovery

Mayor Madeleine is a soft-hearted fool, but he is no criminal. He cannot be.

After all, Javert would never lose control during a conversation with a criminal, only to find himself pulling the man’s tongue into his mouth, then pressing him back against the mairie sofa and straddling him as he would a horse, rocking back and forth against the secret softness of his drawers and the secret heaviness of the other’s strengthening erection.

Madeleine is no help whatsoever. “Javert- Javert- Inspector- we mustn’t- oh, God, but I have longed-” he groans, pushing up with his hips and helping to create a rhythm that turns them from breathing to gulping for air like a fish out of water. The sofa creaks its agonies, but is ignored.

“Monsieur, yes, Monsieur Madeleine...” He has never done anything like this before, but his body seems to know what to do, grinding his clothed pelvis against the other man’s, discovering and fitting convexities and concavities that he did not even know existed.

How did he get here? 

His recollection is like a single, distant lantern in the evening fog, and he would rather relish the moment than go searching in the night. Even if this is wrong. Even if this is with a convi- no, he isn’t, he isn’t, he _isn’t_. He can’t be. This is too marvelous.

This position may be like riding a horse, and Madeleine beneath him may be writhing like a beast, but the feeling is entirely different. Perhaps the mayor is a pegasus of legend, because they are soaring. 

Still moving, Javert reaches down and pulls on the mayor’s cravat as though he could possibly rein them in, keep this back. He should know better. Instead Madeleine chokes, coughs, and cries out, back arching so intensely that he ends up resting on his elbows, body shuddering as he reaches a sudden, fully-clothed climax, writhing out the sensations and sending them both higher.

Javert’s hips cannot stop moving against the spreading damp patch the mayor has just produced, any more than his eyes cannot stop staring at the man’s beautiful and weary face. The pleasure has not diminished, though Madeleine’s lower half stills even as his chest heaves, but it has changed. He leans forward to steal another kiss from the man’s breathless lips.

“Ah... Javert... I am sorry,” Madeleine mutters when he pulls away, cheeks flushing even darker. He settles himself back down against the sofa and puts his hands back on Javert’s thighs, then slides them upward toward the fasteners on his trousers. His voice is still weak, but there is a relaxed tone to it that Javert has never heard before. “Here, let me...”

A cold wave of terror washes over Javert’s overheated body and drags him immediately under, back to earth. He has not been thinking. This is the first time in ages that he has been lost in pleasure without watching or thinking of himself in his lace-bedecked underthings, and now the thought of what Madeleine will find when he undoes the buttons horrifies him. It is bad enough for the mayor to have discovered that he is the kind of deviant whose lusts are for his own sex; despite all his romantic thoughts of the rose and the beautiful secret garden that he cultivates alone, if the mayor undoes his trousers, he will have to face the truth: the fearsome Inspector Javert wears underclothes that would better suit a woman of the night.

“No,” he gasps, his body still. No one else can see. Wildly, he swings his head around, looking for an escape, but his thinking is too muddled for a rational plan, for thoughts of perhaps pulling down drawers and trousers together, or claiming propriety and having them strip separately. All he can think is: “No.”

“Javert?” The mayor’s hands stop, though one brushes gently over the front of his breeches as though to ascertain that yes, there is tangible proof that the inspector was enjoying himself in this act. Javert feels his body shudder reflexively, pushing forward against that hand, but now his thoughts are filled with terror. What would the mayor say? What would he do? He is speaking. “Do- do you mean that? I thought of course you understood, that this… this will never be spoken of to anyone, I am entrusting my reputation to you as much as yours to me; I would not dare-”

But Javert is too flustered and panicky to respond to the disappointment, confusion, and, yes, fear in the older man’s eyes and tone. “Please, no,” are the only words that leave his lips.

Madeleine grimaces and pulls his hands back to himself, moving as though he wanted to sit up, though Javert’s weight still prohibits him from moving too far. “Of… of course,” he says weakly. “I apologize for -- for all of this. I was not expecting -- Inspector, please, stay. Please, let me change my trousers,” he hangs his head slightly in shame at reminding himself of what has happened, “and then we can talk, or at least part on… better… terms? Monsieur.”

“I must go,” Javert says, numb to the mayor’s contrition.

“Tomorrow, then?” The leader of the town’s politics and economy is practically begging, but Javert’s shame is still greater.

“I... do not know. I must go,” he repeats.

Perhaps because Madeleine too is not in his right mind, humiliated and sticky like a young man woken up in the night by a dream that was both so wrong and too right, he lowers his head in deference. Javert dismounts awkwardly, makes a hasty bow, and leaves the mairie. His quarters are perhaps three quarters’ hour walk; thirty minutes if he hurries. And hurries he does, hoping that in that time his prick will be obedient once more.

The pace of his walking, which approaches a jog at some points, does not keep him from remembering -- remembering the mayor’s face in ecstasy, remembering how they moved together, remembering how Madeleine made the first move, kissing him hesitantly when the conversation came to a lull.

Javert strives to recall what had led to that disastrous, amazing scene, in an attempt to distract himself from the shameful way his quick steps keep him rubbing against the satin and lace. Apparently, the shame and the coldness of the night -- he has forgotten his greatcoat in the mairie -- are not enough to tame his body’s lusts, so perhaps he needs further distraction.

He remembers.

What started as an argument about justice and mercy had, with a slight application of wine and broken bread, gradually diminished into a debate, which turned into a conversation. Realizing this, Javert made an offhand comment that, even if they were to become friends, he would still not be swayed by a fool’s pity.

Madeleine, who could not possibly be Jean Valjean, had smiled. “And you will not be bribed, hm?” Then his gaze slid to Javert’s crotch, just for a moment, and the smile widened.

It was only then that Javert realized that he was visibly hard. It was the damned man’s proximity that had done it, the occasional touches to his knee as they talked, and the way his body seemed to seek its own release from the stresses of this night.

His voice was hoarse. “No, sir. Nor will I be blackmailed.” For one shocked, shameful moment, he feared that somehow, some way, the mayor knew about the rose, about his dirty and beautiful secret. The horror made his prick swell even more.

But the mayor had continued: “Certainly not. Fortunately, that is not what this is.”

And that was when he leaned in for a kiss.

Damn the man. Damn everything. Damn the life into which he was born.

When Javert reaches his home, he immediately strips himself of his boots, socks, jacket and undershirt in the kitchen, and, once he enters his bedroom, looks with fury at his lower half. There is a damp patch on his trousers and drawers that, for once, is not fully of his own making, and he remembers the mayor’s spend seeping through his clothes, and apparently through Javert’s as well. Angrily, he strips them off too, and throws them aside together. He will wear no drawers tonight.

Lying down in just a nightshirt, he takes note of his body, and sighs in defeat; no matter what he does, his body will not relax. He hikes up the shirt and takes himself in hand for the first time in months entirely as himself, no thoughts of the rose or the beauty of the silk against his skin, no guilty appreciation for the way he dampens the cloth just before he finishes, nothing but the way he used to do this as a boy: quick, furtive, mechanical. 

He finishes with a weak grunt; the climax is weak too, unsatisfying, and he watches himself wilt afterward with no lingering pleasure. At last he pulls up the bedsheets and sleeps.

\--

Despite his late night, Javert awakens at his usual time just after dawn, and stares at the ceiling with a dull headache and numb emotions. Last night must have been a terrible dream, except that he he knows that it was not; he would not wake in a nightshirt and no drawers otherwise. He glances across the room at the tangle of clothes, and thinks with some regret that he should be wearing his undergarments, staring in the mirror at his blossoming glory, the silken folds and lacy leaves and the beautiful, terrible, moist stamen in the center of the woven flower.

But no. He is not going to. He has let himself slip, become depraved, and he must atone if he is going to return to being the untouchable, virtuous Javert. 

Even in the confines of his own quarters, he does not let himself roam in an unseemly manner, so he strips off his nightshirt and picks up and slides into his drawers and trousers simultaneously. Feeling the brush of the soft material against his cock brings him to attention, as he is conditioned to his morning routine, but he ignores the building, insistent pulse and fastens his clothes tightly, doing his best to think not of the rose, but of breakfast.

In the kitchen stands Mayor Madeleine, back pressed against the door, as though he were bold enough to let himself in, but lost all courage once he’d passed the threshold.

Javert stares, then lunges for his shirt from yesterday; it would be bad enough to be caught in his shirtsleeves, but to be bare-chested in front of the mayor is downright embarrassing. He buttons the shirt hurriedly, missing some holes the first time, avoiding the mayor’s eyes as he does so. “Monsieur le maire. It is an honor; I did not know you knew where I lived. What- what are you doing here?”

Madeleine looks sheepish, and takes a tentative step forward. In his arms is a large bundle of cloth that Javert belatedly recognizes as his greatcoat. “You left this at the mairie, and it has been so cold of late that I thought…” but his eyes show that even he knows this is a weak excuse, and he sighs heavily, lowering the bundle. “Last night…”

“Monsieur, please, let us not speak of it,” Javert snaps, fussing with the buttons at his sleeves. “Let us not complicate things.”

The mayor’s shoulders fall a little. “Those are my thoughts exactly. My behavior was highly inappropriate and misguided, and put you in an unreasonable situation, and I worry that if I do not suitably make amends, the city will suffer with its mayor and inspector at odds.”

“At odds?” Indeed, Madeleine’s guilty expression suggests that he believes Javert left last night due to anger, or possibly disgust, despite his enthusiastic participation through most of the act. “I have no grudge against you, sir. I simply felt- in our positions, it would be wrong-”

“It did not feel wrong,” says Madeleine softly, looking to the side of the room, toward the bedroom door. For a moment, his sad expression shifts to puzzled, but then he blinks it away, takes another step and holds out the bundle. “But if you would rather discuss this in… safer… surroundings, I understand.”

Javert meets him halfway to retrieve his jacket, shaking the well-worn coat to smooth out any wrinkles in the sturdy fabric. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

"But what's that?" Madeleine stares at a slip of fabric that flutters from the greatcoat to the floor, and Javert feels his stomach hit his knees. He cannot believe that, in all the incredible happenings of the night before, he has forgotten the whorecloth that was so precious to him mere hours ago. He chokes as it twists in the air and lands in a heap. He has forgotten how beautiful it is.

Because Javert is still holding the greatcoat, and is thus less mobile, Madeleine reaches the fabric first, and slides it through his fingers appreciatively. "Javert, this is lovely. Is it yours?"

It is, but he will not admit to it. He cannot think of anything to explain why he was carrying around the hem of a prostitute's skirt; even the truth would sound like a fanciful lie. He considers denying it, accusing the mayor of planting evidence of prostitute visits in his house, but the irreproachable Javert does not lie.

"It is, sir," he says, hoping that the firm tone of his voice will put off any further questions. To his surprise, though, the mayor lets it go, hands it over to him with a nervous smile that again reminds Javert that he has not taken care of himself this morning, and then brushes past Javert into his bedroom.

"Monsieur, what do you think you are doing?" Javert blurts out, draping his coat over a chair and following the mayor inside. It could not possibly be that the mayor came here to further their carnal explorations, not after last night. The mayor may carry the fool's burden of a gentle heart, but he carries multiple positions of authority with great ease; the man is no idiot.

"Forgive me, Javert. I simply wanted to know what that was in the corner."

If Javert thought his stomach dropped to his knees before, now it falls past the floor and into his downstairs' neighbor's residence. In the corner is the second pair of drawers he has been working on, still in patchwork stage, and waiting for the addition of the whorecloth border that will bring all the lovely patterns together. Of course he should have known that it would catch the mayor's eye; in the otherwise drab colors of his home, his future frilly underpants are a veritable garden of rainbows.

He whispers a foolish prayer that the mayor will not figure out what it is, but knows there is no way to explain this. He will try anyway. "I needed to do some patchwork, and, well, good cloth is expensive, and I thought that no one but I should see it, so..." 

It is clear that these drawers, while not new, do not need patching, but are receiving it nonetheless.

Madeleine stares, then walks even closer to the work-in-progress, and, unbelievably, runs his fingers down the part of the drawers that would go right over his groin. "It will be exquisite, Javert," he breathes. "So soft. Elegant." He turns, and there is a strange light in his eyes that Javert cannot read. "Is this why you left last night?"

His mouth speaks before his mind can scold it into obedience. "I don't understand."

"Do you- have other sets of drawers like this?" Madeleine's voice is calm, but under the smooth tones is a hint of -- could it possibly be greed?

Javert looks away. "As I said, good cloth is expensive, as are clothes, and sometimes it is necessary to..."

"Please, Javert, do not take offense. May I?"

He has no idea what the mayor is asking of him, but suddenly Madeleine's hands are on his shoulders, guiding him backward toward the bed, and he sits automatically when his knees hit the mattress. The firm press on his shoulders does not let up, and Javert finds himself on his back on the bed, the mayor between his legs and tugging at his trousers. Curse the world; he is still hard and wanting.

And the rose is revealed.

There is a long moment of utter silence as the mayor stares, and Javert hides his eyes behind the crook of his elbow in shame.

"Javert... that is beautiful," breathes Madeleine at last. "Look at the way it cradles you. Look at how it holds you. I have never seen anything like it."

He kneels and leans forward to place his face closer to it, breathing through his nose and mouth; his hot breaths fall onto the satin and lace, and Javert's cock strains at the sensation. The rose has never been so full of life. The fabric's wrinkles extend as far as the pink cloth does, up and down, and underneath, his own body gives it shape: the sturdy roots, the firm and broad stem, and the wet patch at the head turning what is usually a small stamen hidden by budding petals into complete bloom. Javert cannot continue to hide his eyes for long at the feeling.

The mayor does not even lift his eyes when Javert raises his head to stare down at himself.

"Beautiful," he breathes again, and Javert cannot but agree.

\--

This time, they both have shirts on and trousers shoved to their ankles as they rut on Javert’s narrow, uncomfortable bed. The mayor’s bare buttocks can be seen moving restlessly between a pair of legs wearing nothing but underclothes, which are plain along the thighs, and at first glance seem to be notable only in that there is another man above them. 

Closer inspection, however, shows that Madeleine’s thrusts are targeted at where Javert’s drawers differ from other men’s, as he focuses particularly on the narrow stripe of pink in the middle, creating hollows wherever he can, alongside his cock, under his balls, along his thighs. His fingers and thumbs often dip under the pink waistband, on his hips, on his backside, on his front where his cock distorts and elevates the material. Javert has no such place to hold onto mayor’s body, so his hands are freer, acquainting themselves with the soft and firm places of Madeleine’s exposed and covered parts. Their mouths and tongues are everywhere they can reach: necks, collarbones, ears, eyes. 

Madeleine moves faster, his bulk heavy and tremendously strong. This is not the self-gratification Javert is used to in his mornings; his secret flower has an unexpected guest that is thoroughly ingratiating itself. In all his times alone, he has never known such transcendence.

“Oh God- oh God, Monsieur, wait, I must- I mustn’t mess my- oh _God_ ,” he cries, and it is all over for him. The mayor clenches Javert tightly as the inspector comes in his underclothes, and, as though Javert’s convulsions were just what he needed to reach completion, shouts and spurts his own seed onto both their lower bodies.

They lay there in silence, panting, before Madeleine peels himself up with a groan. Without a word, they both look at what has become of Javert’s drawers.

Madeleine looks up, pupils still dark, breath still heavy. “You have never spent inside them before?”

It takes a moment to regain his voice. “Never inside, nor on.” He pauses. “Always above.”

Javert’s spatter darkens the pink cloth from beneath; Madeleine’s lightens it from above. Together, their seed on his drawers is a masterwork of abstract patterns, wet lines mixed with folds in the silk and floral designs in the lace, all contoured over the changing shape of the flesh beneath. This time, he does not consider his deflating prick as wilting, but merely retreating in order to let the design of the remarkable garment display itself.

Madeleine watches just as intently, without a word, breathing shallowly. That strange look of greed has not left his eyes.

“...Monsieur?”

“I am thinking,” says the mayor absently. “This is wonderful. But there is something wrong.”

In Javert’s eyes, there is nothing at all wrong with the world, but he listens anyway.

Without warning, the mayor slides his hands up Javert’s thighs, mirroring his act from the day before, except this time, he is on top, and Javert’s secret is exposed. Then he repeats the act, except starting lower, so that he pushes the cloth around Javert’s thighs up toward his waist.

“I have an idea,” says Madeleine, gaze still distant but intense. Somehow, Javert is able to imagine this man wearing the same expression when he made his revolution in rosaries. “Let us rid ourselves of this dull cloth. It is unnecessary.”

Javert is almost distracted by the hands caressing his upper thighs, but his mind is clear enough to understand the gist of what the mayor is implying. “You mean, replace all the cloth with material from scarves and dresses? I have many times thought to do so, but obtaining such amounts of material on my salary is… challenging.” He colors slightly, hoping that the mayor does not take his statement as a complaint about a policeman’s wages.

“No,” Madeleine says, and finally looks up to meet Javert’s eyes. What was a light is now a sparkle that is almost blinding. “We cut off the legs and allow your thighs to complement the material." When Javert looks away in aroused embarrassment at the idea, the mayor clasps his chin and turns him back. "Please... please, Inspector. Let me try. Where are your sewing supplies?”

He is too tired -- and too curious -- to protest; instead, he points, and the mayor stands up, pulls up his trousers, and picks up the tools, whorecloth, and underwear in the corner.

\--

It soon becomes apparent that the mayor is even more deft with scissors, needle, and thread than Javert is himself. At first the inspector worries when Madeleine snips off first one leg of his drawers-in-progress, then the other, leaving just a waistband and a band of cloth of varying width connecting back to front, but the skillful way he uses the magenta velvet and white lace from last night’s acquisition to expand the crotch and hem the leg openings takes Javert aback.

“How do you do that so well?” he asks, in spite of his better judgement.

“Ah.” The mayor looks a little embarrassed, although his eyes do not leave his careful, delicate stitches. “I was always the tailor of my home, and when I was a young man, I lived with my sister and her seven children, so I had plenty of opportunities to hone my craft.”

Something about this story bothers Javert, but he decides to focus on the other man’s precise needlework rather than think too hard. “Ah.”

“Mind, I have never sewn anything like this before!” Madeleine adds, and Javert chooses to stop searching his memory and chuckle at the mayor’s proud tone. “No, really, Javert, see? It is a masterpiece.” He holds up the completed garment. “Or, at least, it will be.”

Javert’s breath catches, and his lower half pulses. These underclothes cannot properly be termed drawers anymore, for that implies something that must be drawn up like trousers. What the mayor has created is an article of clothing that can only be stepped into and slipped on with grace, covering no part of the legs at all; only the most private parts of a man or woman can be shielded by this piece of cloth. He has combined bits of material, including the whore’s velvet and the scarf’s silk, then tied it all together with lace around the edges. The drawstring is no canvas cloth befitting a man, but a ribbon that would be equally suited tying back a lovely young maiden’s curls. It is art, and Javert says so.

“No,” says Madeleine firmly. “Not yet.” He holds them out, and the request -- no, the order -- is clear. Javert sheds his soiled drawers, making a note to have the mayor attend to them as well after they are laundered -- and, unmindful that this is the first time his superior has seen his bare, bobbing cock, pulls up the new ones with timid fingers. Without being asked, he unbuttons his shirt as well, pulling it off so that he can be seen in full.

There is a moment of silence as they look at each other; Javert will never admit it, but he is too nervous to look at himself.

“Now,” says Madeleine, eyes shining. “Now the art is complete.” He stands, approaches, and runs his hands down Javert’s sides, then kisses his neck as he slides one finger down Javert’s clothed length. “It is perfect.”

Javert thinks of his thick, pale thighs, and doubts it, but when Madeleine puts his hands on his shoulders from behind and walks him to the mirror, he sees perfection. His body is hairy and scarred, but it is an ideal backdrop for the beauty of the garment that only just covers his private areas. The rose has been transformed further, taken to a higher plane of existence yet; the lack of other cloth only highlights the pure beauty that remains.

Madeleine kisses his shoulder. “What do you think?”

“You are a genius, Monsieur,” says Javert, raising his eyes to meet Madeleine’s in the mirror. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, but then Madeleine’s face regains that faraway cast. “What is it?”

The mayor pauses, and his expression suggests that he is selecting his words carefully. “I think -- other people --” and Javert knows he means ‘women,’ but is not bothered, “-- would appreciate these as well; don’t you?”

Perhaps Javert is a selfish man, because he has not thought of this. He does now.

But Madeleine is still speaking. “I have factories to spare, Javert, and there are more people who need work than I can employ at the moment, but just think, the seamstresses and lace-weavers and silk-spinners we would need, all the people we could feed. What do you think?”

The policeman sighs, thinking of his secret garden being spread to the world, though he knows that no one would need to know of his own proclivities. Slowly, though his mind is spinning fast, he nods. Perhaps if more people in society cultivated their dirty secrets under their clothes, society would be a brighter place on the surface, and that could be enough. “I think it is worth trying. And if anyone can make it happen, Monsieur le maire, it is you.”

“Not me alone,” says Madeleine, and kisses him happily, pulling him backward onto the bed and moving against him once more from beneath.

\--

And that is the story of how lingerie as we know it came to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Concluded: _It’s a secret he even keeps from Valjean. Or at least he tries to, because one day, Valjean finds out – and is completely crazy about it._


	4. Epilogue: The Fortuneteller's Legacy

Or that is what the story would have been, if the fates were kind and the mayor had not truly been the missing paroled convict Jean Valjean. If shortly thereafter a letter had not come from Paris summoning Javert to help identify the captured parole-breaker numbered 24601, and if Mayor Madeleine had not followed the summons to reveal his true name to the court.

“I will never tell,” Valjean promises when they are alone afterward in confrontation. “Do not worry, Javert, what happened between us, and what we were working on, that we spoke of all those times -- but all I ask is three days, to save an orphaned girl. That’s all I need.”

Javert draws his sword, rattles the cuffs, and narrows his eyes. “I warned you I will not be bribed or blackmailed, Monsieur le maire.” His voice drips with contempt -- for the man, for himself, for their dreams that were never to be and should never have existed.

But the lying bastard escapes out a window anyway, diving into the water, and Javert considers following him, before remembering that he cannot swim, and worse, his sodden corpse would be found floating in fine lace underwear that cannot even be called men’s drawers anymore. He did not mean to be wearing them at court. Old habits die hard.

Jean Valjean gets away.

Years later, he meets him at a barricade, dressed in a flimsy revolutionary disguise, and then at a sewer exit, back into the uniform that is a symbol of his resolve, similar but more powerful than the one he wore in Montreuil those years ago. This time, it is an hour Valjean begs, the life of a child at stake again. This time, his answer is different. He threatens death, but it is hollow, and finally he must concede. His pistol falls into the sea; he watches it drop, and thinks of his mother for the first time in a long while.

He thinks for a very long time, before finally, he makes his decision, and turns from the bridge. Rue Plumet is not far. He must reach it before Valjean returns from saving the boy. An hour, he claimed. There is time yet.

“I will be waiting, 24601,” he tells the sea air.

What he does not say is just as important, just as relevant: beneath the uniform, pressed and proper, the rose will be waiting as well.

\--

And then, who knows? Perhaps there is a factory in the future after all. Perhaps women (and men) will shortly begin bedecking themselves in frilly wonders, for men (and women) to look upon with lust, to the point that before the passing of too many decades, such garments become commonplace. 

Perhaps one irreproachable man, the son of the rose of the sea, and the secret he cultivated in his brightest glory and darkest shame, and the clever man who loved it, loved him, changed clothing practices and secret fetishes forever.

But such private things are not to be discussed. They are, as it is said, unmentionables.

  
The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [ariodat](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/). Thank you for such an, um, stimulating prompt! ♡


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